


i'll be ok. in the end. hopefully.

by wonderfulbluishbox



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, Recovery, Whump, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27758128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderfulbluishbox/pseuds/wonderfulbluishbox
Summary: “I—I’m not me. I’m trapped, Jack.”“Trapped?”“Cell. Me. I’m trapped. I can’t get out.”“You’re free. You’re safe with me. We’re in Cardiff, Doc, in an apartment on the edge of the city. There’s a beautiful view of the sky, especially at night. There are so many stars. Galaxies, even. You’ll love it.”“No. There are no stars. I’m trapped and I’m lonely and I’m scared, Jack. Nothing’s here. Nobody’s here. You’re not here. Not really. It’s just me. Without the stars.”*The Doctor is breaking. Jack can see it in her eyes. Every day, he can see her crumbling slowly, folding into herself. Struggling to cope with this new Doctor, this shadow of the Doctor he used to know, Jack has to save her before he loses her entirely. And he's going to need help to do so.The Doctor is trapped. Trapped and confused, unsure of what's reality and what isn't. She can't break out of her head. She knows she shouldn't be like this. With time running out, she knows she has to fight this fight by herself. As soon as she can find the strength...
Relationships: Jack Harkness & Yasmin Khan, Thirteenth Doctor & Jack Harkness, Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan
Comments: 59
Kudos: 66





	1. Starless

_She was cowering in the darkness._

_Shrouded by the cold, the rough, the hopelessness. Shaking hands pressed against jagged rock. Breath misting. Dusky orange rivulets of blood trickling, staining, matting in tangled hair. Whimpering cries echoing in the endless silence._

_Crumpling. Floor slamming against bones, bones jolting with the shock. Tears mixing with sweat, sweat mixing with blood, trembling and convulsing and curling up tight. Muscles cramping, aching. Head buried in hands._

_Lonely. Lonely. She was so lonely._

_And so scared. So unbelievably, utterly scared. Screams built in her throat, itching, acidic, but screams would bring them, and they would bring torture and suffering and pain, pain, so much pain. Jamming her fist in her own mouth wasn’t enough. She was sobbing now, eyes squeezed shut, hot droplets leaking down her face. In sheer frustration, desperate to crush the urge, she slammed her forehead against the floor. Then again. And again. Pummelling, pummelling, a sick drumroll of dull thuds until—_

_The crack._

_And the scream._

_And the noise._

_The explosion. The heat. The fire. Gasping, trembling, she scrambled backwards, fireworks exploding in her head. Flattening herself against the wall. Shadows wavering in her vision, amongst the light and the heat and the blur of colours that were suddenly swirling around her. Too much. Too much. Far too much._

_A hand on her face. She jerked away, kicking out, foot connecting with something hard. The hand was back—two hands, gentler than the others, on her shoulders. Yet gentle was ominous, gentle hid hate, gentle did not bode well._

_“Get off me!”_

_The words burnt her mouth, burnt everything around her, destroying from the inside out, like a cigarette burn on paper. Yet the hands stayed on her shoulders. She scrabbled at them, trying to bite them, digging her nails into them—_ anything _to get the stranger off her. To protect herself from the hate. The poison._

_“Doctor,” a voice said, and she froze._

_Doctor? Was she the Doctor? The name rang distant bells in the fogginess of her memory. Doctor. Doctor who? It had been so long since someone had called her that. It had been so long since someone had called her_ anything _. Except bastard. Bitch. Freak. Names laced with cruelness, mocking, spite._

_“Doctor,” the voice said. “I’m going to get you out of here.”_

_How? How? They were lying, they_ had _to be lying, she couldn’t get out, nobody could get out. This was a trick, this had to be a trick, nobody was coming to save her. Nobody was there for her. She was alone, so alone, trapped in her cell. Her mind. Always watching the few stars glimmering in the darkness outside. Always so numb, so disconnected, so… so_ dead _._

_“Hey,” the voice whispered, as she let out a pathetic cry. “It’s OK. You’re safe with me.”_

_Safe._

_She was never safe. Never secure. Always in danger._

_“Get off me!” she yelled again, only it came out in jumbled, stuttering Gallifreyan. Talking—why was she talking? Talking didn’t do her any good. Talking meant punishment. Words meant pain._

_She wasn’t touching the ground. Why wasn’t she touching the ground? She was flying—no, being lifted, lifted up in strong arms that enveloped her in a firm grasp._

_“It’s OK,” the voice soothed, hot breath on her ear. “It’s OK, Doctor. I’ve got you. I came back for you, like I promised. Oh my God, what have they done to you?”_

_And she gave up. She went limp, head lolling back, eyes fluttering shut. Barely anything changed—she was constantly surrounded by the dark, the black, the emptiness._

_What difference did it make?_

***

One minute. Jack promised himself he’d nap for one minute.

One minute, which had turned into an hour.

Five hours.

In all honesty, he was exhausted to the point where grabbing some sleep seemed like the most heavenly thing on Earth. Half of him had been screaming to stay awake, to keep an eye on her, to make sure nothing went wrong. But the other half… oh, the sofa had been so welcoming, and in that single moment of weakness, he’d dropped into a deep nap that lasted far longer than he intended. 

And now he was cursing himself under his breath. The strong stench of ginger clung to the apartment like ivy. Several bottles were abandoned across the kitchen table, all drained to the dregs. Jack _swore_ he’d locked them away—but then, he realised with a sinking feeling, she had her sonic screwdriver. And locks were no match for the sonic. How stupid could he get?

The Doctor was braced by the window in the living room, head bowed, evidently trying not to fall over. She made a whimpering noise as Jack approached, shoulders squaring. It pained him how he could see even the slightest muscle movement in her body—the oversized jumper she wore didn’t hide the plain fact that she was thin, terribly malnourished, her bones jutting out against her papery skin. 

“Doctor,” he said softly, and the Doctor whipped round to face him. Her widened eyes were unfocused, her scar-scattered hands fisting against the windowsill until her knuckles were white with the tension. 

“Doctor, what did you do?” Jack asked. She blinked at him, swaying on her feet.

Ginger… why had she picked ginger beer? She was very obviously drunk, but ginger beer had one of the lowest alcohol percentages on Earth. In fact, it had no alcohol whatsoever. And Time Lords, Jack knew for a matter of fact, did not get drunk that easily. Was ginger a different case entirely? Too long ago, when she was a he, all big ears and leather jackets, he’d told Jack that Time Lords needed a whole river of Earth alcohol to feel the effects, as their bodies were so resilient.

But this Doctor—this shaking, terrified Doctor—was nothing near resilient. She edged away from Jack, away from the window, flattening herself against the wall. 

“It’s OK,” he soothed, taking a step forward. “It’s OK, Doctor. You’re probably not used to the feeling, but I can help, alright? C’mon.” He extended a hand. The Doctor cast him a look, a look that stated that she was certainly _not_ going to take it. “Doc, I’m just going to help you to the sofa, alright?”

She muttered something indiscernible.

Jack sighed, letting his hand drop. 

_Why did you do it, Doctor?_

“If you’re so determined to move by yourself, then I think you should sit down, yeah?” he said, trying a different tactic. The Doctor ignored him, gripping her elbows. A flash of something crossed her face, creasing her brow and setting her mouth in a hard line. Jack was instantly on alert. “Doc? What’s hurting?”

He knew that face. He knew it all too well. A month and a bit of living with this new version of the Doctor, treating the extensive injuries she’d received in that hellhole of a prison, had taught him a lot about her. Or this crumbling shadow of her—because he knew, deep down, that she wasn’t meant to be like this. That there used to be a different personality, a different Doctor. Yet this one, the one cowering away from him right now… she hated being touched. She shrank away from him on a daily basis, folding into herself, bringing up her barriers faster than a blink of an eye. She rarely spoke—and it was this aspect that made Jack’s heart ache the most, because the few words she’d said were lilted with a Northern accent, and that accent flooded him with memories. He missed her telling stories to him, of wild exploits and risky adventures and running across space and time.

For a moment, when he’d tracked her down in that prison, he thought she would be OK. He’d thought he’d hear a laugh ring out, a warm body rushing into his arms, a soft conversation exchanged between them before they were breaking out together, hand-in-hand. 

The ghost he’d found in that cell was so many people, but it wasn’t the Doctor he expected… or knew. Lank, grease-streaked hair. A rough red jumpsuit shrouding her figure. Screaming as she backed away from him. Wrenching herself from his grip. Two jagged scars bending across her face: one crusty and bruised, along her cheek, the other fresh on her forehead, still dripping with blood.

Jack found himself looking at these scars now, a hot surge of anger sweeping through him. What did they _do_ to her there? Nobody—least of all, the Doctor—deserved to be in a place like that. Treated like animals. Forced to keep quiet, to keep small, or face the punishment. Locked away in a cramped, icy cell with no view of the stars.

The Doctor, the greatest, most eccentric traveller in the history of the universe, with an abundant love for space… and she lived without the stars for god-knows-how-long.

Starless.

***

_Don’t show him you’re in pain._

_Don’t show him you’re in pain._

_Don’t show him you’re in pain._

_She resisted the urge to slide to the ground, to succumb to the pain. Images swirled in and out, merging together in sickening whorls. An apartment, a cell. Jack, the guards. Concern, fury. Light, dark. She stumbled a little, arms flying out, grabbing onto something in front of her. Soft material of a shirt. A hard chest underneath._

_Jack?_

_She… she was… was she safe?_

_A cry bubbled in her throat and she pulled herself away. This was a trick, a mind trick. Psychic fields in the prison—artificially generated, designed to mess with her head, blur the line between what she wanted to think and what they were forcing her to see. She’d worked it out a while ago, in her first few weeks here—there?—but by then it had been too late. Far too late._

_She choked on a rising sob, legs giving way beneath her. Ginger? Why could she taste ginger? Spicy aftertastes lurking at the corners of her mouth, stinging her tongue when she poked at them. Oh… she recalled grabbing the neck of cool bottles, uncapping them with a flick of her thumb, downing them in mere gulps. Craving a cure to the pain that was threatening to tear her apart._

_It did nothing for her. The pain only intensified._

_Don’t show him your weaknesses. Don’t show him you’re on the verge of breaking. Don’t show him any emotion._

_Wait for him to go away._

_Jack?_

_No._

_Yes._

_No._

_Her attempts to heal her bleeding mind were shaky, unstable, as fragile as a glass feather. In the brief moments of clarity, which were sporadic and hidden by the haze of her confusion, she’d tried to reconnect the remains. Slot the breaking jigsaw pieces back together, sew up the fraying material, mend the feeble remains. It took time, and energy… too much energy… and more often than not, her struggling efforts were futile._

_Energy._

_Too much energy._

_Oh, she was so tired…_

_...and she was bleeding. She could feel it, the sticky, warm texture seeping through her bandages, the very heart and soul of the pain. It would be so much easier to slip into the darkness, to let herself fall and fall until she couldn’t feel herself falling. Nobody there to catch her. Nobody there to bring her back up. Just her and the darkness, the oppressive darkness, entrancing her into its world that she so loved and loathed._

_In the darkness, nothing and nobody could hurt her._

_In the darkness, everything and everybody could hurt her._

_Lights flickered before her eyes. For a moment, she was touching the shirt again, gripping it for support—because it felt so familiar. Jack? Jack Harkness? Was it really him, or was it her mind playing games? She tried to reach out, feel the mind in front of hers, connect with it for the briefest of seconds. It was so hard. She let go, let the shirt go, let the hope go… because it was fake. Fake hope. She couldn’t tell the difference between reality and the mess of her mind._

_Sickness coiled in her gut. The next thing she knew, her knees were hitting the ground and stomach acid was burning her mouth, retching out all she could. The ginger bristled mockingly in her mouth. The wound contorted on her torso, and with it came a horrible scream, a scream that tore at her ears, a scream that resonated so deeply with her… because it was her voice. Her scream. Her pain._

_No. No. No. Not the pain._

_Don’t show him you’re in pain._

_Don’t show him your weakness. Don’t show him you’re weak._

_She stood. Blood. Staining. Leaking through the jumper. She glanced at her fingers, clamped over the material, and saw the shining liquid against her skin. Her eyes flicked upwards to meet—to meet_ his _, whoever he was, the man that was staring at the blood with a look of absolute horror on his face. A light navy shirt. Smart jeans. Army-style boots. They triggered something in her head, gave her a sense she could trust him—_

_No. She couldn’t trust anyone._

_She couldn’t let them touch her._

_Don’t show him you’re in pain._

_The darkness came, as quiet as snowfall. She was buried in it almost instantly._

***

Jack caught the Doctor as she crumpled, tucking his arms under her knees and shoulders, scooping her up against his chest. For a moment, he was stunned—he hadn’t expected her to be so weightless, so frail. And this was the first time he could hold her without having a blow aimed (and often delivered at him). Jack bit down on his lip, cradling the silent Time Lady in his arms, watching the unconsciousness weigh down on her features. Light hair framing her face, curling just under her chin. Sweeping cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Even the two scars disfiguring her face couldn’t hide how lucky she’d been with this regeneration.

The Doctor gave a little moan, snapping him out of his thoughts, and he cursed under his breath as he saw the steadily-growing dark patch on her jumper. He’d been so _sure_ the wound was healing—but then again, he’d been sure about taking a nap, and look where _that_ had ended up.

Setting her down on the sofa, Jack made sure she was in a comfortable position and started to ease her jumper off. Every week, since he’d arrived with a half-alive Doctor in his arms, he had insisted on changing the dressings on the wound on her torso. Not that the Doctor had let him touch her; she’d done it herself, surprisingly steady hands unwinding the bandages, washing the wound, applying fresh cotton bandages with no sign of any pain whatsoever. Jack figured she liked the opportunity to take care of herself, after all those years. And he figured she didn’t want him anywhere near her bare skin.

By far, this wound was the worst of the lot. She had a couple of nasty gashes on her legs, multiple bruises and scars flung across her body like a morbid constellation, the two scars on her face. But this wound had clearly been caused by something much different. It stretched across the left side of her ribcage, curving into a too-straight line across her stomach. It ran deeper than the rest, he recalled, twisting and ugly. Jack dreaded to think what might’ve caused it. 

Praying for the best, he pulled the jumper over her head. He didn’t realise his eyes had been squeezed shut until he opened them—and looked down.

And nearly threw up.

It had been five days since he’d last checked it. This could’ve been going on for five days. And he hadn’t noticed.

No wonder the Doctor was in so much pain. 

A greenish-yellow substance crusted along the edges of the gash, mixing with the drying blood. It was hotter than the rest of her body, far too hot: Jack could feel the heat radiating from it from his position next to the Doctor. Instinctively, he folded her hand in both of his, squeezing it, trying to press warmth into those bony fingers. Hoping she would feel his presence. 

She trembled under his grasp—no, no, it was her pulses, her hearts, thrumming so fast that they were nothing more than an indistinguishable blur of beats, shaking her body with the speed. Jack withdrew his grip, old soldier’s medical instincts kicking in as he scanned her, careful not to let his gaze linger on anything for too long. He respected the Doctor’s boundaries. He knew she would hate this situation right now. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Doctor?” he breathed. “Why?”

Jack rose to his feet. Bathroom first, for antiseptic wipes, new bandages, the variety medicines he’d collected from across the galaxies over the years. There had to be _something_ in there that could help. He’d clean the wound, work out what the infection was, give the Doctor what she needed. If the universe was on his side today, this would only be a blip on the radar. Something he could sort out in twelve, twenty-four hours.

The slightest pressure around his hand stilled him.

“Jack?” a weak voice whispered, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Doctor,” he whispered, dropping down beside her. “It’s me.”

“It’s you,” she answered. “Promise it’s you?”

“I promise, Doctor. It’s one hundred percent me.”

“What… what’s happening to me? I think I’m losing it, Jack. Everything, it’s just… it’s just a foggy mess. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what’s happening. What’s happening? What _happened_?”

With a jolt, he realised her eyes were clear. Looking at him directly. Greenish hazel irises, flecked with gold. It was the first proper eye contact she’d made with him since he broke her out of prison. Was this… was this progress? Was everything going to be OK?

The Doctor coughed, a violent, hacking cough. “I—I’m not me. I’m trapped, Jack.”

“Trapped?” he echoed.

“Cell,” she murmured. “Me. I’m… I’m trapped. I can’t get out.”

“You’re free,” Jack reassured. “You’re safe with me. We’re in Cardiff, Doc, in an apartment on the edge of the city. There’s a beautiful view of the sky, especially at night. There are so many stars. Galaxies, even. You’ll love it.”

“No.” The Doctor shook her head. “There are no stars, Jack. I’m trapped and I’m lonely and I’m _scared_ , Jack. Nothing’s here. Nobody’s here. You’re… you’re not here. Not really. It’s just me. Without the stars.”

“Doctor, you’re—”

“Don’t lie to me. You’re not real. This isn’t real.” Her voice grew hoarse, on the verge of tears. “I’m alone. I’m trapped.”

“Doctor…”

Jack was lost for words. The Doctor’s taut grip slackened, her cheek turning to rest on the arm of the sofa with a heavy sigh. Jack sat there, frozen, wordlessly begging her to wake up again. To see that this apartment, this world… that _he_ was real, alive, by her side.

_I’m trapped and I’m lonely and I’m_ scared _, Jack._

_You’re not here. Not really._

_It’s just me. Without the stars._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks so much for taking the time to read this. Feel free to leave any comments, this is my first fic and I'd love to receive any feedback or ideas that you have!
> 
> Shoutout to the amazing @Anobii1992 for agreeing to be my beta for this! Thank you so much :D
> 
> Come say hi to me on Discord if you want to: wonderfulbluishbox#1866
> 
> :)


	2. I'm Sorry

“I’m so sorry, Doctor.” Jack swallowed, trying to keep his hands still as he eased up her jumper once more and plucked a sterile wipe from the package. The wound glowered up at him, all clotted blood and foul-smelling pus, and he couldn’t help but grimace back. The Doctor’s closed eyes were scrunched around the edges, frown lines etched across her forehead. When he tried placing a hand on her shoulder, he felt her muscles tense warningly—and drew back. The last thing he needed was the Doctor lashing out. Neither of them could risk the wound reopening.

In normal circumstances—or, the normal they’d settled into—he would dictate what was going on when treating her, to reassure the Doctor and hopefully calm her down. Now, though, he wasn’t sure if that was going to help. She wasn’t going to like this. At all. Even as he shuffled closer on his knees, the Doctor moaned and winced in her semi-conscious state, almost as if she  _ knew  _ what was going to happen.

“Doc,” he murmured anyway, “I’ve got to clean your wound. I’m sorry, it has to be done, but it’s going to hurt. Brace yourself. I’m sorry.”

Jack paused. Could he do this?

Deciding it was no time to be a gentleman—or a coward—he took a deep breath and swiped the wipe across the open wound.

A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the once-ominous stillness of the apartment, piercing Jack’s eardrums, digging right down into his heart. He flinched, dropping the wipe, instinctively reaching out to comfort her… but she was weakly trying to fend him away, hands flailing blindly in the air. As hopeless as a baby bird. 

Gritting his jaw, trying not to imagine the amount of pain she was in, Jack scrubbed at the wound, determined to clean off as much of the visible infection as possible. The Doctor’s back arched, tears pouring down her cheeks, gripping handfuls of her blonde hair so tightly that he feared she might rip it out. Convulsing, she let out another horrible scream. She was desperately trying to push herself up, he could see her muscles tautening in her limbs. Jack prayed he wouldn’t have to hold her down. She would never forgive him for that.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, sorry,” Jack apologised, over and over again. A stream of a jumbled language was tumbling out her mouth, and it caught him off guard. It sent chills down his spine. It was like no other language he’d heard before. Dropping the wipe for a moment, he simply listened as the words died away, each one edged with something unnameable, something cold and foreboding that made him  _ very  _ uneasy.

Most of the crust around the wound was gone. Blocking out the Doctor’s cries from his head, Jack cleaned off the last few bits, crumpled the wipe in his hand, and threw the hated ball in a neat arc into the bin across the room. Rasping, the Doctor sank back into the sofa, relief as clear as daylight on her face, although she was still crying. Tiny, stuttering sobs. 

“Doctor?” he said.

Her glassy eyes flickered open. 

“You know I’d never hurt you deliberately.” Jack tried to get her to focus on him, to tune in on his voice. Speaking calmly, enunciating each word clear enough so she could understand. “I… it just had to be done, Doctor. I couldn’t risk it getting worse. I’m sorry for not keeping an eye on it… on you. I shouldn’t have let you go that far to stop your own pain.”

There. He’d said it.

There was no recognition in her expression. Nothing.

Jack turned away, reaching for the medical kit on the coffee table.  _ Medical kit  _ sounded far too fancy for what it really was: an old, battered, tin box with a creaking hinged lid and his initials imprinted on the bottom. Inside, the medical supplies were thoroughly depleted. Four small tubs of painkillers and antibiotics, four different salves and creams, several bandage rolls. They’d halved, maybe even quartered, from what they were before. Cardiff pharmacies would supply him with an endless stock of bandages—but they would be no good for the pain relief. The Doctor’s body did not mix well with human painkillers.

He only hoped there were enough safe ones to keep them going until the Doctor was better.

What could be defined as better?

Opening a tub of mixed painkillers, Jack tipped a couple into his hand and inspected them carefully. A label on the bottom, scribed in his own smudged, slanted handwriting, told him what each colour was and the key ingredients they contained. When had he written this? Years, decades ago, perhaps. Immortality did weird things to his sense of time.

Most of the pills were safe for Time Lords, he deduced. As far as he could tell, anyway, he wasn’t an expert on the Doctor’s physiology, and she was in no state to tell him what to do.

The question was—how to give them to her?

He’d have to wait until she was fully conscious. He couldn’t risk her choking on them.

“I’ll be back in a sec, Doc,” Jack said to the half-awake Time Lord, and hurried to the kitchen. “I think we both need a cup of tea, don’t ya agree?”

Well.  _ He  _ needed a cup of tea, at least. He wasn’t even sure if the Doctor had heard him. 

Jack leant against the kitchen counter, facing the window, the edges cutting into his hip. The empty ginger beer bottles glinted mockingly from the bin. He exhaled a long, low breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding. A dark orange liquid stained his fingertips, and a pang of guilt shot through him as he gazed down at them. At the blood of one of his oldest, closest friends. 

As Jack gazed out the window, he was struck by how  _ exhausted  _ he was. Every muscle and bone in his body felt like they’d been worked to beyond his limit. His head was cloudy at the edges, his mind sluggish and blurry. What he needed right now was a drink, a party, a night out, somewhere to throw away his worries for a while. Somewhere loud, somewhere busy, somewhere… somewhere  _ away  _ from this apartment. He liked it, definitely: the rooms were small but stylish, with a nice combination of modern and vintage touches. There was a great view of the glittering city from all of the windows. Yet the quietness, the sheer domesticity of it… Jack wasn’t used to staying in one place for more than a couple of weeks, and his legs itched whenever he thought of all the places in space and time that he could be exploring. 

But he wasn’t leaving the Doctor. No way. She needed him more than anything right now.

Pouring water into the kettle, Jack set it to boil and re-entered the living room, a sudden thought striking him. A cleaned wound didn’t mean the infection had disappeared—he still needed to redress it, to stop any airborne germs sneaking their way in, and he needed to administer the antibiotics that were crucial in the fight against her own body. No matter how limited the supply.

As he expected, the Doctor, who had woken up a little more by this time, insisted on dressing her own wound. She struggled with the bandages, huffing and puffing and gasping as she twisted and turned, trying to wrap them around her torso. Jack leant forward, offering to help, worried she was going to reopen the wound—but the frightened look thrown in his direction told him enough. No way was she letting him near her. Not after the dreadful incident beforehand.

Ten frustrated minutes past. She was having difficulty securing the final parts of the dressing, and it was then that Jack, with a bit (which turned out to be a lot) of coaxing, took over and finished off the job. She lay statue-still beneath his touch, fixated on the ceiling, worrying her lip.

“Alright, Doctor,” he said, once finished. “You’ve got to take some antibiotics, alright? They’ll stop the growth and kill any bacteria that could be duplicating inside the wound again.”

The Doctor tilted her head a little, blinking at him. Her eyebrows flicked up slightly. It was such a  _ Doctor _ -like look that Jack huffed out a laugh of relief. Of course she knew what antibiotics were. She wasn’t called  _ the Doctor  _ for nothing. In a moment of nostalgia, he reached to squeeze her shoulder fondly—and her eyes darkened immediately, her body jerking away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. It was probably his twentieth apology today, and he grimaced as the Doctor’s face, contorted with agony as he cleaned her wound only mere minutes ago, flashed up in his head. “I’m reckoning two tablets should do for now, yeah? You’re going to have to take them every six hours if we want that wound to stay as it is now.” 

God, he felt so ridiculous, talking to her as if she was a kid. He knew that she wouldn’t appreciate it at all. Granted, she wasn’t reacting much to his words… nevertheless, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. 

“If you understand, can you nod?” Jack asked.

A pause. The Doctor’s head twitched. She was focusing on him, at least, with a mixture of wariness and confusion.

Plucking two blue tablets from the medical kit, Jack placed them in her palm. The kettle started to whistle in the kitchen, and the Doctor started. 

“Don’t worry, Doc, it’s just the kettle. I’m going to go make us some tea, yeah? I trust you to take those by yourself. Hang on—”

He hurried to fill a glass with water. A long time ago, he’d made the mistake of taking pills without water, and he’d vowed never to repeat the experience again. For all he knew, the Doctor would think he was trying to choke her or something if he gave her the medicine without any means of swallowing it.

She accepted the glass without a word.

In the kitchen, he put two teabags in polka-dot mugs and filled them with the freshly-boiled water. Once they’d brewed for about three minutes, Jack added milk to both mugs, and two lumps of sugar to the Doctor’s—no matter what regeneration, she’d always had a sweet tooth, and this had been proved to Jack for her current body by her unwavering love of custard creams. There was a fresh packet just  _ begging  _ to be opened in one of the cupboards.

Armed with a tray holding the mugs and a plate of the biscuits, Jack came in to find the Doctor watching him almost stoically. The glass was empty, the antibiotics gone.

“Do you think you still need painkillers?” he queried. She gave a stiff shrug, arms folded over her stomach. 

“Doc,” Jack sighed, setting the tray down on the table, “it’s either a yes or a no. If I don’t give you painkillers, it might only get worse. What don’t you like about them? The taste? The  _ colour _ ?” he suggested. “I know you like to be independent, but there’s only so far you can go.”

She bowed her head, fidgeting with her fingers, tracing the denim pattern of her loose jeans. He’d never imagined her to be a jeans person, but these ones were well-worn, an old pair of his, and she’d taken to them like a duck to water. All in all, with the star-patterned navy jumper and stripy socks, it was a cosy look that fitted her well. She was happy with it, which was the main thing.

“Hey,” he said, perching on the arm of the sofa opposite to her. “I’m not telling you off, Doc. I’m worried for you, that’s all. You…”

He braced his elbows on his knees. “You don’t communicate a lot. You hate talking right now, I get it, but with things like your health… you’ve got to make it clear what hurts, what doesn’t hurt. What you  _ need _ . I’m not psychic, Doctor… well, maybe I am, a little, but it’s nothing compared to you.”

The Doctor looked up, curious. When he didn’t expand on the point, she returned to tracing the same pattern on her jeans. Over and over again. Jack noted the rhythmical, consistent lines, sketched invisible into the material. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight straight lines. Then one, two lines crossing over those. Like tallies.

Tallies?

“Doctor?” he whispered. Then he straightened up.

Tears were running down her cheeks. Her chest moved sharply, irregularly. Her breathing shallow and rasping. A panicked flush spread across her cheeks, like a sunset staining the sky, and she whimpered. Fingers rising to slide into her hair. Face lowering to press into her knees. 

And then she screamed.

***

_ And then she fell. _

_ If she could call it falling. It was more gentle than that, more sinister than that, a lone feather being wafted helplessly about by a persistent breeze. She felt so  _ light _ , so free, yet she was caged and she knew it. Caged in the complicated, wonderful, terrible cell of her mind, only half-aware of the external reality—if reality was even there. It was hard to tell. It was easier to sink, to descend, to fall— _

No.

_ Yes. _

_ No. She couldn’t fall. She had to get back up, she always got back up, no matter the situation, no matter the cost, she would always get back up, she was… she was the… _

_ Doctor? _

_ The voice came from faraway. And faraway, she was screaming, the noise tearing through her throat. Were they her screams? They were so deep, so familiar, so… so horrible, she realised with a sick jolt.  _

_ Doctor? Doctor?  _

_ The voice was urgent, so urgent, pressing her mind from all angles. Oh, she wanted to sleep so badly. To land in nothingness, curl up and just… just sleep… _

_ White was streaking through the darkness. Bright white, sunlight white, fizzing at the edges—no, hazy at the edges—no, fizzing—ugh, maybe both, it was hard to tell. Lines, lines, lines were forming around her. Eight vertical ones, slashing the peace, followed swiftly by two diagonal ones crossing over them. The symbol shrank until it was no larger than her palm. Then it duplicated. Over and over again. Flinging its copies across the darkness, until she was surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of them, until— _

_ Until she landed. _

_ Landed clumsily, feeling her knees—wherever they were—collapse under the pressure, feeling the ground rise up to meet her in a matter of seconds, a second, perhaps less. Gasping for air, she flipped onto her back and stared up at the marks, hands (did she have hands? Was she even in her body at all?) fisting by her sides. _

_ Tallies. They were tally markings. And if there were tallies, that could only mean one thing... _

_ Hardly daring to breathe, she pushed herself into a sitting position, eyes flicking around the room—around the  _ cell _. The same tallies that she’d seen for years and years and years, growing and swelling and multiplying on the walls. The same window, barred with the electric blue poles that knocked her unconscious and burnt her hands whenever she touched them, with the same mocking view of empty space outside. The same cold draft, prickling her skin, whispering tauntingly in her ear. _

_ She blinked. Once. Twice.  _

_ She couldn’t breathe. _

_ She couldn’t breathe.  _

_ She couldn’t breathe. _

_ Somewhere, far away, she was choking, her lungs flattened, her hearts racing, unable to regain control over her body. Here, in the depths of wherever she was, she was choking too, on all fours, one hand flat against her chest, the grating sounds interjected with wails, pitiful wails that echoed around the cramped cell and the vast cavern of the universe outside. It wasn’t even real. This was—this was—this was all in her head. _

_ Was this all in her head? _

_ Was she safe? _

_ She wasn’t safe. She was never safe. _

_ Doctor, look at me. Look at me. _

_ I’m here. I’m here. You’re safe. _

_ Just look at me, alright? That’s all you need to do. _

_ Look into my eyes. _

_ You know it’s me. _

_ You know it’s me, Doctor. _

_ Hey, hey. You’re not trapped. I’m with you, Doctor. _

_ And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for causing you so much pain. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ They were never sorry. _


	3. The One That She Needs

The windows were rolled down. The wintry wind gusted through the car. The world glided by in a blur of night skies and evergreen trees and glowing orange lamps.

Officially, Yasmin Khan was supposed to be patrolling the motorways that surrounded her home city, Sheffield. Unofficially, she was enjoying the freedom of the near-empty roads, the roar of the engine as she sped across the tarmac, the sheer thrill of steering with one hand—a technique which she’d mastered recently—and letting the other elbow rest on the door. Her neat plaits were being buffeted about by the wind; loose strands were already sneaking their way out, tangling together into what she predicted was going to be an utter nightmare of a bird’s nest when she got home.

Ah, well. It was worth it.

The Doctor would’ve loved it.

_ Can we have the lights and sirens on? _

Yaz smiled wistfully at the memory, tapping her fingers on the wheel. It seemed like decades ago that they had been racing down a similar motorway, a newly-regenerated Doctor in the passenger seat next to her, all frayed clothes that were too big for her, and messy blonde hair and eyes shining with inquisitiveness. 

She often regretted not letting the Doctor have the lights and sirens on the few times that the Time Lord travelled with her in her police car after that. Common sense and the police protocols drummed into her many times had, unfortunately, defeated the urge to switch on the flashing lights and let the sirens wail all they want, and fulfil the Doctor’s desire. Though Yaz had always wondered why the Doctor hadn’t fitted her own sirens onto the TARDIS. It was a  _ police  _ box, after all.

It had been ten months since she’d last seen the rich blue wood of the TARDIS. 

She pushed any thoughts of the Doctor out of her head. Life had moved on. Moved on, leaving behind the hope of chasing the stars, of exploring space and time, of watching the universe roll by with the most beautiful, the most magnificent, the most fabulous woman Yaz had ever met. She may not have seemed it, with her ridiculous sense of fashion and her countless eccentric quirks, but the Doctor was— _ had _ , Yaz corrected herself with a pang—been the most powerful woman ever to have existed.

She could bring whole cities to a standstill with just a few words. She could build creation upon creation with nothing but scraps and stardust. She could weave time through her fingers and trap it in a bottle of liquid, swirling colours. She could cast hundreds upon thousands of stars into the darkness, the silvery glows highlighting her hair and giving her an ethereality that placed her beyond the magic of the universe.

And Yaz missed her. She missed her she missed her  _ she missed her _ .

That stupid hope that the Doctor may still be alive curled around her heart, a shield that refused to go down, even as the days turned into weeks and, eventually, the weeks melted into months.

It was a stupid hope for a reason.

It was  _ stupid _ .

Yaz cursed herself for letting the Doctor bury herself in her mind again. God, that woman was inescapable. Even though she was dead, she was forever on the fringes of Yaz’s thoughts. Smiling brightly from afar. One step ahead. 

Now Yaz was ahead. Ahead by countless steps. The Doctor was dead, frozen forever in time, and she, Yaz, had had the audacity to move on without her. Allowing time to frisk her away in a whirl of seasons and tears and forgotten memories that surfaced at the most inconvenient—or convenient—times.

Sometimes, she wished she’d stayed with the Doctor on Gallifrey. They could’ve died together. Hand in hand. Facing death together.

_ We’re not letting you go. You’re not doing this! _

Yaz’s breath hitched in her throat.

_ Get off me Yaz! _

_ Please. _

She was suddenly hyper aware of everything around her, of the engine vibrating beneath, of the bitter coldness on her exposed skin. The car swerved, and she yanked the wheel to save herself from crashing into the barriers dividing the two sides of the motorway. 

God, she was so tired. Her supervisor had given her a whole bunch of late-night shifts that crawled out into the early hours of the morning. Yaz craved the luxurious softness of her cloud-like bed, the gorgeous taste of her favourite brand of coffee, the soft light of the sunrise seeping through her window. The apartment she’d bought herself four months ago was situated at the top of the apartment block, and the block itself was at the heart of the city. The hustle and bustle of everyday life was what Yaz needed the most.

Graham and Ryan lived not far away from there, in the same old house that she’d grown to love. They’d met up every week, sometimes more than once a week if they could manage it, to simply… hang out. Get a pizza and watch a film if the weather was horrible, go out on day trips if it was nice. Talk about anything and everything. They talked about the Doctor, all the time. Laughing over times gone by. Discussing what she would do if she was here with them.

Sometimes, they cried. And that was OK, as Graham pointed out. It was OK to cry.

Christmas was approaching. December had finally arrived, and with it, the roads of Sheffield were suddenly strung with fairy lights, and Christmas music was blasting out from all of the radio stations, the warm smell of sweet treats drifting from the bakeries and clinging to the bustling high streets. The sheer thought of the atmosphere was enough to lift anyone’s mood—but out here, on the winding motorway, Yaz was feeling anything but the Christmas spirit.

The Doctor loved Christmas.  _ Had  _ loved Christmas. She was a big kid at heart, really, and she would’ve been the heart and soul of the atmosphere. Dragging her fam from place to place across the universe, frost flecked in her hair, chin tucked into her wonderful rainbow scarf, eyes wide with awe as she talked at a million miles an hour. Wrapping tinsel round her braces. Attempting to make Christmas cookies (and often burning one of the numerous TARDIS kitchens down). Extending a hand to catch the first snowflake drifting down from the sky, smiling as it lay in her palm for seconds afterwards, glittering in the winter sunlight.

Enthralled by the Christmas movies they would watch in the cinema room.

Threading lights around the control room.

Singing along to all the classic Christmas hits.

Climbing the tallest, snow-capped fir tree she could find.

Squealing when she discovered her stocking had been filled overnight.

The Doctor had loved Christmas.

And she’d changed Yaz’s life, the moment she fell through that train roof.

Yaz didn’t know how she was going to cope this year, without the Doctor.

***

She was astonished to find that, when she tuned back into the real world, tears had been trickling down her cheeks. Sniffing loudly, she dragged her sleeve across her face, mortified—even though no one was in the car with her. The motorway wavered before her vision. She blinked several times, stifling a yawn. No cars were on the roads tonight. Nobody would know if she pulled over for a quick break.

And then her phone started ringing.

Yaz jumped as the shrill tone pierced the air. The device vibrated in the drinks holder, an unknown number flashing up on the screen. With half an eye on the road, she studied the number curiously. In normal circumstances, she would just ignore it. But her racing heart told her otherwise—there was a chance, a slim chance,  _ but a chance nonetheless _ … that it could be the voice she hadn’t heard in ten months. The voice she wanted to hear the most.

Pulling over into the nearest layby and flicking on the interior lights, Yaz picked up the still-ringing phone and tapped the green button. “Hello?”

“Yasmin Khan. How could I forget a voice like that, huh?”

The tone was male, jokey, flirtatious, and definitely  _ not the Doctor _ . Yaz gritted her teeth, about to end the call, when something inside her stopped her. She  _ knew  _ that voice. The accent—and the words—resonated with her, triggering something in the back of her memory. Eyebrows raised, she asked, “Who is this?”

“I think you know.”

“Sir, I have no clue who you are, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll—”

“No, wait.” He cut her off. “Don’t end the call. I’m serious.”

“How d’ya know my name?” Yaz slumped down in her seat. “And  _ who is this _ ?”

“Captain Jack Harkness, at your service,” he replied, and she froze.

“Jack?”

“Yaz,” he said, and she could just  _ hear  _ him smirking. “Long time no see, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Honey?”

“Jack, I’m serious,” she sighed. “I’m tired, on a late-night shift, and I’m not in the mood. How did you get hold of my number, anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter. I need to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait until the morning?”   


“No, it can’t,” he snapped.

“God, calm down. I was only asking.”

“Yeah, well—”

Jack took a deep breath, and for a second or two, there was nothing but the crackling of the line fizzing in Yaz’s ear. Then he spoke again, and he sounded  _ weary _ . Which, if she took into account the brief time she’d met him, wasn’t something Jack Harkness was used to being, apparently. 

“I’m sorry. It’s been a tough month.”

“What’s up?”

A small sniff came from Jack’s end of the line. Except it didn’t come from him. It was distant, barely audible, but Yaz’s sharp ears registered it. “Is there someone else there with you?”

Silence.

“Jack?”

“Look, Yaz, I don’t know how to sugarcoat it,” Jack began, “and it would be useless if I did. You need to know the facts. It’s bad enough that you’ve been believing the wrong thing for—how many months has it been since the Doctor died?”

“You  _ know _ ?” Yaz cried out.

Jack gave a non-committal  _ mmm _ .

“How can you—” She sucked in her breath. “How can you be so  _ casual  _ about it? Y-you’d known her for far longer than I have, Jack, and it feels like I’d known her forever, so… so how can you… how  _ can  _ you…”

“Yaz, listen to me. Just answer the question. How many months has it been for you?”

“Ten. But—”

“It’s been thirty years for her.”

“What the  _ hell  _ do you mean by that? How do you know? She’s  _ dead _ , Jack!” Yaz practically screamed down the phone, hot tears stinging her eyes. Had Jack really called her up just so he could pour vinegar into the not-quite-healing wound? Was he so bitter about the Doctor’s death that he wanted to make sure another went through his pain? God, she’d only known him for literal minutes, but this was  _ low _ . This was so low, for any decent human being. Was he even  _ human _ ? 

“Don’t shout, please, you’ll disturb her,” Jack pleaded.

“What?” Yaz gasped. “What do you mean, I’ll disturb her? Is she—Jack, is she—”

A quiet sigh. A snuffle. Jack murmured a couple of indistinguishable words, evidently not aimed at her. Yaz gripped the steering wheel with her free hand to stop it from shaking. 

“Jack, is the Doctor there? Is she… is she with you now?”

“Yes,” Jack said simply. “Yes, she is.”

The tears broke free. Yaz couldn’t help it. She let the phone drop onto her lap with a muffled  _ thump  _ and buried her face in her hands, propping her elbows awkwardly on the wheel, sobbing her heart out. Jack was saying something, perhaps trying to soothe her, the tinny phone speaker struggling to penetrate her crying. She gasped in huge gulpfuls of air, scrubbing at her face furiously, trying to recollect herself—but it was so hard, so, so  _ hard _ , because the Doctor wasn’t dead, she was  _ alive _ , she was breathing and she was safe and oh God,  _ she was alive _ . A living, breathing, soul. Not a ghost. Not a hallucination, Yaz just  _ knew  _ she wasn’t imagining things…

_ The Doctor was alive _ .

And Christmas was approaching.

She got to see the Christmas lights once more.

“She’ll get to celebrate Christmas again!” Yaz burst out, a broad grin spreading across her face. “She’ll—oh my God, Jack, she  _ loves  _ Christmas, this version of her, not that I’ve known any other versions, obviously, but this Doctor,  _ my  _ Doctor, she  _ loves  _ Christmas!” All the memories of previous Christmases on the TARDIS, no matter how few they were, resurfaced in her mind and it took a lot of effort for her not to  _ whoop  _ with excitement. “Oh, she won’t shut up about it! The first signs of Christmas, the first snowfall, the first winter galaxy, and she won’t shut up for  _ days _ ! I bet she can’t stop talking about it now, am I right?” She let out a breathless laugh. “Can I talk to her, Jack? I  _ have  _ to!”

Silence. Such a quiet, ominous silence, that Yaz feared that the signal had dropped out, or her battery had died, or some awful thing had happened that meant she couldn’t talk to the Doctor after all these months—

“You there?” she checked, mouth going dry.

“I’m here,” Jack confirmed.

“Can I talk to her?!”

“You  _ can _ talk to her, I think, but I don’t know if she’ll talk to you, Yaz.”

"What do you mean,  _ you don’t know _ ?!” Yaz exclaimed. “She’s right there, I can hear her, c’mon, Jack, just pass the phone over…”

“Yaz, she won’t even talk to me at the moment.”

“What? Why?”

“She…” Jack paused. “She hasn’t been quite right since I broke her out of prison.”

“She was  _ imprisoned _ ?! How? She was supposed to die on Ga—never mind,” Yaz said quickly, deciding it was not the time to explain Gallifrey, the Master and every tiny detail about what the Doctor had been through before she’d ‘died’ in the ruins of her home. Her gut clenched. “She couldn’t break out of prison? She can break out of anything, Jack, you know her…”   


“She couldn’t break out of this prison,” Jack said quietly. “It’s one of the highest security containment facilities in the universe, up there with Stormcage. And it’s one of the most savage.”

“Savage? You can’t mean—”

“When I found the Doctor, she was in a terrible state,” Jack interrupted, and the weariness was back, the sheer tiredness weighing down on his voice. “Horrible injuries. I can’t go into details now. She was terrified, Yaz, absolutely terrified. Wouldn’t let me touch her at first. She  _ still  _ won’t let me touch her now, not if she has anything to do with it. She rarely talks to me. She’s… it’s like she’s protecting herself from the exposure to the real world, Yaz, because the world she experienced for all those years was so brutal to her.”

“That…” Yaz chewed her lip, the metallic taste of blood leaking onto her tongue. “That doesn’t sound like the Doctor. At all.”

“It  _ is  _ the Doctor, Yaz. I only know what she’s like now, and this isn't what she’s like. At all. No matter her regeneration, there’s always that core personality that stays the same inside her, and it’s been shredded to bits by that godawful prison. I need your help. I need your help to save her before… before it’s too late. You know what she was like before, you know this regeneration of hers far more than I do. And you were the closest to her, closer than the handsome one and the silver fox."

“How d’ya know that?” Yaz asked, swallowing back the urge to cry once more.

“I get a vibe,” Jack said. His shrug was audible. “Oh, and there’s the minor fact that she keeps mentioning your name whilst she sleeps. It’s only started up recently, a few days ago, when I discovered one of her wounds was infected—”

“What?!” Yaz felt like she’d said that word a lot tonight. She didn’t know what she was more surprised at: the infected wound, or the fact that the Doctor kept mentioning  _ her name _ .

“I’ve got it under control, don’t worry,” Jack said swiftly, “but I had to clean the infection and she  _ hated  _ that. With a passion. And when she sleeps… not that she’s slept much… she keeps murmuring your name. I think… I think she wants you, Yaz.”

Yaz choked up. Blinking away the tears, she whispered, “Can you put me on speakerphone? Please? I want to let her know I’m there.”

“Sure. I can’t promise a verbal reaction—”

“Don’t promise it then, Jack, just put me on goddamn speakerphone.”

Some shuffling about. Then, in a low voice, “Say something, Yaz. Anything.”

“Doctor.” Yaz smiled, hoping the warmth would be conveyed down the phone. She pressed her eyelids shut and pictured the Doctor, all soft features and colourful rainbows, listening in. “Doctor, it’s me, Yaz. I’m coming for you. I’m coming for you and I’m not going to leave you again, alright? I promise, Doctor. I promise.”

After a moment, Jack spoke again. “She looked at the phone, Yaz. As soon as she heard your voice.”

“She  _ did _ ?”

“She did,” Jack said, and she heard the grin in his tone. “I could see it in her eyes. She recognised you. It’s the happiest I’ve seen her look since I broke her out.”

“Oh my God.” Yaz slumped down in her seat, then straightened up again, setting the phone back in the drinks holder. “Where are you and the Doctor, Jack? Where are you living?”

“Cardiff,” Jack said, and a moment later, her darkened screen flashed up with a new text message. The preview showed the beginning of an address. “Are the handsome one and the silver fox there with you, by the way? If so, they’ve been unusually quiet. Shame. They’ve got great voices, especially the silver fox…”

“ _ Ryan and Graham  _ have names, Jack,” Yaz pointed out, “and no, they’re not. They’re on holiday.” Without the distraction of the universe at their fingertips, Graham and Ryan had booked themselves a two-week holiday in France (it had surprised Yaz to know that Graham was almost fluent in French). Christmases were hard for them, what with the loss of Grace, and she understood the need to fill the doubly-wide gap this year. They’d asked if Yaz would like to come along, but she’d declined. That stupid part of her that clung to the memory of the Doctor had insisted that she should stay in Sheffield, just in case the Doctor dropped out of the sky once more.

Well. That stupid part of her wasn’t so stupid after all.

“You’ll let them know, right?” Jack asked.

“Naturally.”

“So… you’re coming?” For the first time, Jack sounded nervous. “You’ll help me look after her? You’ll help  _ her _ ? She wants you, Yaz, you’re the one that she needs—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jack,” Yaz snorted. “ _ Of course  _ I’m coming. I promised the Doctor, didn’t I? I can’t let her down.”   


And with that—without even considering a goodbye—she cut the call.

The night, and the roads, stretched out in front of her, tantalisingly empty. Yaz knew the police wouldn’t classify this as an emergency, but for her, it was the most important emergency in the world. And there was only one thing to do in an emergency.

She switched on the engine once more. She rejoined the motorway.

She slammed her foot down on the accelerator.

“This is for you, Doctor,” she murmured.

And she turned the lights and sirens on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waving* hi Yaz! i missed you! now go reunite with your Doctor, you wonderful human being :)
> 
> please do feel free to drop a comment with your thoughts :)


	4. A Fragile Trust

_ There was something quite calming about taking things apart. _

_ She worked slowly, cautiously, separating each part and placing them in neat lines, ordering them by colour, by size, by function. Out of the corner of her eye, she could sense someone watching her, but she wasn’t eager to work out who. Whoever it was, she knew it was the person who’d kept hurting her. Who  _ kept  _ causing her pain, even though they apologised, over and over again, like it would make a difference—because they kept doing it. _

_ What was the point in saying sorry if they were going to do it again? _

_ She was scared. Constantly on alert, her worlds wavering between the cell and—and the apartment, she guessed, wherever that was. The apartment and the man— _

_ Jack Harkness? _

_ —with his useless apologies— _

_ It was Jack, wasn’t it? _

_ —and the hands that tried to be gentle, but felt rough, so rough— _

_ Jack wouldn’t put her through all that pain. _

_ She sighed, muscles tautening briefly as she heard footsteps, coming towards her, steady and deep… and then moving away again. The click of a door, not unlike the door of her cell, opening and closing with a thud. Was she alone? No, she wasn’t alone, he never truly left her. _

_ But she’d left him, so many times… _

_ Fumbling around for her beloved sonic screwdriver, the only normality that she’d been left with… whatever normal was… she frowned and carefully mended a part that had broken in half, fusing the delicate wires together, gaining a brief burst of satisfaction as they connected seamlessly. How she wished she could do that. Mend her shaky world by simply whipping out her sonic and welding the broken parts together again. _

_ Was this her world? Was it shaking? _ _   
_

_ Why did nothing make sense? _

_...but he’d left her. _

_ When she needed him the most… _

_ he hadn’t been there. _

_ And she couldn’t trust him anymore. _

_ She needed someone else. _

_ Someone that she could trust. _

_ And she thought she knew who that person was. _

_ Don’t show him you’re in pain. _

_ Was she in pain? _

_ She could feel a burning on her face. Raising a hand, she felt the serrated edges of a twisting mark, elongating across her cheek, another on her forehead—and she gasped. How did it get there? Had he—had the man, who said he was Jack Harkness, but she was never quite sure—had he done this to her? _

_ Don’t show him you’re in pain. _

_ Don’t show him you’re scared. _

_ Deciding to ignore the foreboding prickling, she let the fixed part fall the short distance to the carpet—carpet?—and hid her face in her hands, eyes closing for a moment, head spinning. Sometimes she just wanted to sleep. Forget about the confusion, the worries, the mess of her life, whatever her life was.  _

_ Except she couldn’t sleep. Because they would wake her up. _

_ And they would hurt her. _

_ A shrill sound cut through the haze and she tensed, bracing herself for the impact. A heavy blow around the head, maybe. The white-hot jab of an electric baton. Knives—knives had been used before as well. The sharp point, gliding menacingly down her skin, before digging deep, so deep, and letting the blood flow free… _

_ No. No knives. No batons. No blows. _

_ Voices. _

_ Captain Jack Harkness’s voice— _

_ —and another. Soft, clear, tinted with Yorkshire— _

_ —like her’s! She was pretty sure she had a Northern accent too— _

_ —and familiar, heartachingly familiar, though she couldn’t make the connection, couldn’t piece together the puzzle with her sonic, no, no, she knew that voice, she knew it she knew it she knew it, she  _ knew  _ she knew it, it was there, on the tip of her— _

_ You don’t know your own name? _

_ ‘Course I know it! It’s right there, on the tip of my… _

_ It was so frustrating. She winced as the voices came closer, twisting her hair between her fingers, looping the strands round and round, tugging at it, breath catching in her throat, eyes squeezed shut, dull pain rising in her side, begging they wouldn’t come any closer, begging for her mind to come and take her away… no, she wanted to be here… no, she didn’t, she didn’t!  _

_ There was someone crouching down in front of her. _

_ Was it her? Was it  _ her _?  _

_ She saw pastel-coloured Converse… oh, she did like a good pair of Converse… and faded jeans. She knew those jeans. She knew… she knew this person. She hoped she knew this person. _

_ She wasn’t hallucinating. _

_ Was she hallucinating? _

_ They—they didn’t look like prison. They didn’t sound like prison. She was too scared to touch them. _

_ Hallucinations were deceptive. But… but this one was different. More alluring. More reassuring. She didn’t want this one to end. _

_ Were they prison? Was this all a crazed, unforgiving dream? Was this crazed, unforgiving dream the real world? _

_ Oh, she was so confused. _

_ A hand extended towards hers and everything stilled. _

***

There she was. Stretched out on the floor, surrounded by bits and pieces, sonic screwdriver abandoned at her side. Clothed in a loose jumper and wide-legged jeans, rolled up at the ankles, stripy socks poking out beneath. Blonde hair all messy and tangled, hands hidden in it. Eyes fixed on the toes of Yaz’s shoes. A small shiver rolling across her body. She looked like she was fresh out of regeneration, fresh from a fall from the sky. Slightly manic-looking. The too-big clothes. Petrified, Yaz could sense, because her universe had been thrown upside down and now nothing seemed right anymore. Yaz understood the body language. She knew the Doctor.

She knew this was  _ her  _ Doctor.

Even if her Doctor didn’t know it herself.

“Doctor,” she whispered, keeping her hand steady. “I turned the lights and sirens on for you. I know… I know I never let you have them on before, and I regretted that for a long time. But I turned the lights and sirens on for you, Doctor, because you’re  _ here _ . I did it in your honour.”

And then the clouds lifted.

Just a little. Yet Yaz saw the light creep into her expression, the recognition flitter across her face and she fought the urge to cry. Tentatively, the Doctor tilted her chin upwards, hands dropping from her hair and instead clasping in front of her on the floor.

Her eyes locked with Yaz’s.

Those same eyes. Hazel, gold, magical, holding the entire universe in their core… holding the entire  _ weight  _ of the universe. Eons and eons gone by, the very essence of time and space oscillating through those irises that Yaz loved so much. They were focusing on the floor again in seconds. Hair parting at the nape of her neck as she ducked her head. 

She edged forward, cautious. Her jumper  _ shhed _ against the carpet.

“Hey, Doctor,” Yaz whispered again, “it’s me. You can touch me, if you want. I know you don’t like it much, but you’re welcome to if you want. Prove it’s me, yeah?”

The cold tip of a nose brushed the base of her thumb.

She held her breath.

The Doctor sniffed. Her nose nudged Yaz’s fingers, moved down them towards the back of her hand, explored the underside where her palm was. Every so often, she would sniff again, brow furrowing, wariness and curiosity battling for assertion. Yaz’s knees were beginning to complain; she scolded herself for letting them distract her. Honestly, she had no clue what the Doctor was doing, but gut instinct told her that she shouldn’t disturb the process. The smallest wrong movement and the fragile trust developing between them would be shattered in an instant.

A tongue swiped across Yaz’s palm. Yaz squeaked in surprise.

The Doctor hesitated.

Behind her, Yaz heard Jack move. He’d been politely staying out of the way, but Yaz figured he was preparing to intervene if anything went wrong. True, Yaz didn’t know what  _ going wrong  _ looked like for the Doctor right now—but this rebonding, this reunion, this wasn’t wrong. This was right. In every way possible.

The Doctor poked out her tongue once more. It darted across Yaz’s palm again, tickling her. Then she paused, contemplating, the lightest of frowns on her brow. Yaz didn’t dare move. Too many important things rested on these minutes, these moments they were sharing together.

A hand slipped into Yaz’s.

It was warm, ever so warm, despite the chilliness of her nose. Definitely warmer than how Yaz remembered the Doctor’s usual body temperature. Calluses lined her palms. Pale blue veins visible through the translucent skin of her pulse points. Far too many echoes of scars and bruises. Ochre fingers twined with ghostly ones. Yaz squeezed the Doctor’s hand just once. Trying to press her thoughts through the touch, into the Doctor’s mind. 

_ I’m here. I’m here, Doctor. I came to you, like I promised. Remember? I promised I’d never leave you. And I never did, not truly. I’m staying with you now, Doctor. For as long as you need me, I’ll be there. _

_ I know. _

Yaz jerked backwards with the shock, palm burning with the sudden warmth that had blossomed between them. The Doctor mirrored her movements, an almost inaudible sob escaping her throat. Just like that, she was backing away from Yaz, pushing herself across the carpet until there was a good two feet between them. Half of the Doctor was now under the coffee table, but she didn’t seem to care. As if nothing had happened, she picked up her sonic and the half-finished device she’d been working on, and the buzzing sound of the screwdriver filled the apartment once more.

“Doctor?” Yaz murmured. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It came as a bit of a shock to both of us, whatever that was. Pl-please. If you can hear me. If you forgive me. Give me a sign.”

The sonic paused. The Doctor hunched her shoulders.

Yaz held out her hand.

After a painstakingly long moment, it was nudged by the tip of a chilly nose.

Yaz took that as forgiveness. She hoped it was forgiveness.

***

“What the  _ hell  _ happened to her?”

Maybe it was a combination of the exhilaration of reuniting with the Doctor and the shock of seeing her so… so  _ unlike  _ herself—Yaz wasn’t sure she could find a single word to describe the busying, quiet figure on the living room floor—but Yaz found herself practically spitting out the words to Jack as soon as the kitchen door had closed. The kitchen itself was minute, hardly enough space to swing a Pting, with polished marble surfaces and gleaming stainless steel instruments. A vase of bright, fresh flowers gave the place a homely touch, something Yaz knew the Doctor would appreciate if she ever left the living room—but from what she’d gathered, that was a rare occasion. Quite out of place with its clean surroundings, an old, battered metal box sat self-consciously on the windowsill. Yaz stared at it for a moment, before turning back to Jack, struggling to stay in control.

“What the  _ hell  _ happened to her?” she repeated, less conviction in her voice. After all, none of this was Jack’s fault. In person, he looked as exhausted as he sounded over the phone, possibly even more. Prominent bags under his cyan eyes, panda-style. Hair unkempt. Clothes crumpled. Yaz supposed he wasn’t used to feeling like this at all. 

“Thirty years in that hellhole of a prison,” Jack said darkly. “Thirty solid years, and they didn’t treat her well.”

“You don’t say. What did they do to her there?”

“Enough to crush her, that’s for sure.”   


“You have to be more specific. I’m serious, Jack. If we know more of what happened to her there, then that could help us understand her better. Help us understand what we need to do to help.”

“I told you pretty much all I knew over the phone,” Jack sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Savage prison. Horrible, horrible guards. Brutal methods of punishment. The Doctor’s always had a rebellious streak, I’d bet my vortex manipulator—”

“Your what now?”

“This thing.” Jack held up his wrist, displaying a leather wrist strap, with a flap that Yaz guessed hid a device beneath. “Cheap travel through space and time. Used it to get past the prison shields and rescue the Doc, and take her back to Cardiff. Completely burnt it out though. Useless now.”

“Not much point betting it then, is there?” Yaz quipped.

Jack gave her a tired smile. “Wouldn’t give it away for the world. I thought I could give it to the Doctor, see if she could fix it up, considering she’s in a busy mood today. It’s the most active I’ve seen her since we got here,” he said, smile disappearing. “I think the thought of you triggered something inside her, Yaz. Her mood’s lifted over the past few days, even if not by much.”   


Yaz wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She swallowed back the urge to cry with happiness.

“How have you been keeping her clean? And treating her wounds?” she asked, more to distract herself—although she was genuinely curious. “She hasn’t let you touch her much, has she?”

“I think she’s frightened of me,” Jack said simply, though hurt laced his voice. Yaz felt a pang of sympathy for him. “I’ve encouraged her to take a bath every couple of days. She’s very insistent on tending to herself. It’s been more difficult with the infected wound, I’ve had to change the dressing every day myself… it’s in an awkward position for her to do it herself… and…”

He swallowed. “She’s petrified. Doesn’t move a muscle whilst I’m changing it. You’ve got to understand,” he said fiercely, “that I’d never do anything to hurt her deliberately. Cleaning the infection caused her a lot of pain, but that had to be done. I try my best not to touch her otherwise. Sometimes it’s just reflexive instinct, like putting my hand on her shoulder to comfort her and yeah, she doesn’t like me for that, but oh my God, Yaz, it’s been so  _ hard. _ ”

Jack had opened a cupboard door to retrieve two mugs. He slammed them down on the surface, back facing Yaz, shoulders squared. “Taking care of the Doctor, when she’s in a state like this, it’s been so  _ hard _ . And it’s upsetting, Yaz, because I’ve never done anything like this before. Never seen the Doctor like this before. All I want to do is be the best I can for her, and sometimes, she can be so uncooperative!” he yelled, foot flying out. It connected with the fridge door with a  _ thud _ . Yaz blanched.

“Jack, it’s not her fault—” she began defensively.

“If she hadn’t got herself thrown in that bloody prison...”

“No!” Yaz cried. “Neither of us know why she was thrown in there. But it  _ wasn’t the Doctor’s fault _ . I know that.”

“Do you?”

“...no,” she admitted. Then, “But you know the Doctor. I know the Doctor. She wouldn’t do anything that would get herself shut up in a place like that. Don’t you dare suggest she would do that to herself,” Yaz said hotly, arms folded, swelling with indignation on the Doctor’s behalf. “Not after what she went through, with Gallifrey and the Master and—”

Whoops.

Jack stared at her, anger dissipating faster than a snap of the fingers. “What d’ya mean, Gallifrey and the Master? The Master came  _ back _ ?”

“Shush.”

“What? You can’t—”

“No, shush.” Yaz held up a hand to silence him. She listened carefully.

Tiny, agitated whimpers were drifting through the closed door.

***

Jack barely had time to process what was going on before Yaz spun around on her heels and ran to the living room.

He had half a mind to call out, to stop her—the last thing they wanted was to shock the Doctor—but he paused at the kitchen door frame, watching Yaz drop to her knees at the Doctor’s side. The Doctor herself had abandoned her tinkering. The sonic lay forgotten on the carpet, the half-finished device under the coffee table. Curled up in a quivering ball on the floor, she was clutching her stomach, her whimpers growing louder, more pained, more agonising to hear. Tears glistened on her cheeks. 

Yaz caught Jack’s eye. The horror was evident on her face.

“She never cries,” she breathed.

_ She’s cried so much. She’s cried nearly every day, Yaz. You’ve never seen her cry before, have you? _

“Doctor?” Yaz asked, attention brought back to the Time Lady by a deep, pained groan. “It’s me, Yaz. What’s hurting? Can you tell me?”

Her hand hovered uncertainly over the Doctor’s shoulder. Jack jerked, part of him wanting to stop her from upsetting the Doctor even more, part of him wanting to see how this played out. The Doctor had let Yaz touch her before, not even five minutes after Yaz had arrived, and it was that thought that rooted him to the spot. A weird emotion twisted inside him. He didn’t want to know what it was.

“Doctor, I’m here,” Yaz soothed, eventually letting her hand come to rest on the Doctor’s shoulder. The Doctor groaned again, several tears slipping onto the carpet. But she moved a fraction, allowing her cheek to brush against Yaz very briefly. Yaz nodded, as if that had confirmed something for her. She spoke in the same, even, warm voice: “I’m going to help you, alright? Just hang on in there. You’ll be OK.”

She turned to look at Jack, eyebrow arching accusingly. “Stop standing there with a face like someone’s slapped you. She’s in agony, Jack! For God’s sake, help her!”

Jack sprang to life, rushing into the kitchen to retrieve the medical box. The weird emotion flipped uncomfortably inside him again as he heard Yaz comforting the Doctor, mellow tones softening the child-like cries. The Doctor was so readily accepting Yaz’s help, yet refused to let Jack anywhere near her on most occasions—even though  _ he  _ had been the one to track her down,  _ he  _ had been the one to break her out of prison,  _ he  _ had been the one to treat her wounds and, ultimately, save her life. Yes, the Doctor couldn’t tell what was what at the moment, but he had known her far longer than Yaz had done. Years, decades, centuries even.

The last time he’d seen the Doctor, it was probably a thousand years ago for him.

For her? He had no clue.

Rummaging through the medical box, Jack winced. The Doctor had been so  _ sick _ , and with the daily treatment and dressing of her wound, there was hardly anything left. He lifted out a small, dented blue tub (police box blue—of all the shades it could’ve been, it had to be  _ police box blue _ ). Inside were the remnants of a healing lotion. The ingredients list on the bottom had been worn away. He sniffed it. Yeah, he knew what this was. He was sure he could recall what was in there. Applied directly to the wound, it would numb the pain enough for him and Yaz to work out what was wrong, change the dressings, do what they needed to do. 

It was safe. He knew that much.

At least there wasn’t any ginger in there.

“Jack!”

Once next to the Doctor again, he unscrewed the lid of the tub and dabbed some of the cream onto his fingers. The Doctor scrabbled as he shifted closer, doing her utmost to get away from him. The weak efforts were so despairing, so sincere.

She was terrified of him.

Jack glanced at Yaz, trying not to show how hurt he was.

Yaz rubbed a thumb over the material of the Doctor’s jumper. “Jack just wants to help as well, Doctor. It’s pain relief. It may feel cold at first, but it’s going to help. I’m staying right here, OK? You can feel me. I’m here. Now,” she said, “I’m going to lift up your top so Jack can access the wound. He swears he won’t touch anywhere else.”

She threw Jack a look. “ _ Will  _ you, Jack?”

“God, Yaz,” he said, unsmiling, “you really think I’d do that?”

Yaz eased the hem of the jumper up, stopping just shy of the ribs, enough to expose the mangled mess of the bandage (most likely caused by the Doctor wriggling about) and the horrific wounds on her stomach. Yaz looked genuinely chagrined at Jack’s words. “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean it like—”

“Let’s get this over and done with,” he muttered. For the Doctor, he added, “Yaz is right. This won’t hurt a bit. I know you don’t like me much right now, but she’s right. I’m going to help you all I can, Doc.”

He applied the cream in an efficient, business-like manner, spreading a thin layer over the ghastly wound. It took a few seconds to absorb, translucent white sinking into the grotesque palette of clashing colours that distorted her skin. 

The Doctor stilled. Her cries fell into nothing but silence. For a moment, the only sound in the apartment was her raspy breathing. Jack’s heart hammered in his head.

The effect was almost instantaneous.

It was like watching a time-lapse. A whitish-green colour burst out from the fringes of the wound, spreading across her skin, draining it of any pigment whatsoever. The Doctor let out a horrific, high-pitched scream which descended into a fit of violent coughing. Yaz was trying to pull her into an upright position, looking more like a deer in the headlights than anything, yet the Doctor thrashed about and screamed words in that language that was like icy water trickling down Jack’s spine. 

Dropping the tub onto the ground, he ignored Yaz’s warning yells and scooped the Doctor up, depositing her in a sitting position on the sofa in a matter of seconds. A blindly flailing fist flew in his direction and he ducked, rushing round to support the sobbing Doctor before she slumped forwards again.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he breathed as the Doctor squirmed, trying to break free from his grip. “Doctor, I can’t let you go, you need to be upright, it’ll help you breathe properly.” To his horror, her lips were tinged blue, and a glassy sheen was settling over her once-bright eyes. “Doc? Doctor, stay with us.  _ Please _ . Yaz—Yaz, why are you staring at me like that?”

Nothing less than pure, undiluted fury was written across Yaz’s face. She’d moved onto the sofa in front of the Doctor, now supporting the Time Lord, who didn’t seem to recognise that it  _ was  _ Yaz and kept wriggling about frantically like a fish out of water. With a trembling hand, Yaz held up the opened tub, so the contents were facing Jack. In a low, deadly voice that cut through the noise like a knife through butter, she said, “You knew what was in here. You knew what was in here  _ and you gave it to her _ .”

“What? What do you mean? There’s no ginger in there or anything, I know that, it’s got traces of aspirin and—”

“Aspirin!” Yaz screamed, and the Doctor wailed, letting out another hacking cough. “ _ Aspirin, Captain Jack Harkness _ !”

A chill swept over Jack. The Doctor slid down the sofa. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Through the numbness, he felt the distinct stinging sensation that yet again, he’d failed her.

“Yaz,” he whispered, “she isn’t—she isn’t  _ allergic  _ to aspirin, is she?”

“Oh, well  _ done _ , clever arse,” Yaz snapped. “Aspirin’s potentially lethal to Time Lords. You didn’t know that? After all those years travelling with her, you didn’t know that?”

Real panic flashed across her face. “You never knew?”

“I never knew,” Jack choked out.

He’d failed the Doctor. He’d failed her again and again and again. 

He couldn’t stop.

He stared at the limp form of the Doctor in Yaz’s arms. At the shallow movement of her chest. At the ashen pallor of her complexion. 

He—had he—had he just condemned his oldest, his closest friend to death?

Had he truly failed her this time, once and for all?


	5. Telling Stories

Yaz closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensation of the Doctor’s hand, nicked with scratches and scars, enfolded in both of hers.

The Time Lord looked so…  _ small _ . Curled up under a cosy purple duvet that engulfed her. One limp hand resting atop the covers. Blonde hair fanning out across the pillow, soft strands given a greasy sheen in the semi-light. Her complexion could be compared to snow; the scars on her face glared an angry scarlet, and the same blue that had appeared twenty-four hours ago still tinged her lips. Yaz dreaded to know what her torso looked like; the dressing change wasn’t due yet, and she didn’t want to risk waking the Doctor up. Not when one wrong movement could shatter her like glass smashing against rock.

And she was breathing so… so  _ scarily _ . Short, irregular rasps, occasionally punctured by a tiny gasp or a wail, or a frighteningly rough cough, that speared Yaz’s heart. She smoothed down the sheets in a motherly fashion and pressed her fingers against the inside of the Doctor’s wrist, more to reassure herself than anything. Twin pulses danced wildly beneath her fingertips.

She hoped Jack would be back soon. He’d gone out in search of oxygen cannisters—there was no way the Doctor could get through this without clean oxygen supporting her lungs. Though Yaz wasn’t sure how he was going to obtain them without being asked a lot of awkward questions. The last thing either of them wanted to happen was an ambulance arriving to cart the Doctor, a very much non-human being, off to hospital. And the Doctor would hate that. She’d never forgive them for it.

_ Aspirin.  _ Of all the things the Doctor had to be allergic to. Of all the things Jack could’ve given her. Yaz had admitted to him (and herself), after they’d moved the Doctor to the single bedroom, that it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know, and she was genuinely sorry for yelling at him. But at the same time—he could’ve checked. He was the one to administer the cream to the Doctor. And a part of Yaz still held that resentment, that fury, against him.

The front door clicked open and shut. Jack came into the bedroom, carrying a cannister that looked nothing like any medical oxygen cannister that Yaz had seen. It was much larger than the average Earth one, gleaming a blinding silver, with a red  _ T  _ on the side comprised of multiple hexagons. A keypad and two dials were situated above the  _ T _ . A vent lay near the bottom, and a tube extended out of the top, on which was attached an oxygen mask at the other end.

Yaz raised an eyebrow. “Some oxygen cannister. Where did you get it?”   


“Doesn’t matter,” Jack said shortly, and she thought she saw a flash of pain in his eyes. 

“Hold up.” She held up a hand as he approached, moving her chair so she was closer to the Doctor. “You’re not giving that to her until you tell me exactly where you got that. The last time you gave her something—”

“Yeah, I  _ know _ , Yaz,” he snapped. “No need to rub it in.”

“Where did you get it?” she repeated, squeezing the Doctor’s hand.

Jack paused, shifting his grip on the cannister. Then, softly, “The old Torchwood base in Cardiff. It’s future tech, Yaz, designed to filter pure oxygen from the air around us. Basically, we’ve got an unlimited supply. I can program it so it can also destroy any germs or risky viruses in the air that could harm the Doctor. It’s safe. We can use it.”

“That’s… woah. OK.” Her eyebrow dropped, and both knitted themselves into a tight frown. “Did you say Torchwood? Is that like a time travel alien company that you worked for or something? I think the Doctor mentioned it once, when we were fighting a Dalek. Apparently it had gone down due to financial crisis?”

Jack let out a cold laugh. “Is that what you were told? Is that what  _ she  _ was told?”

“Yeah?” Yaz pondered his response. “Y’know, she did seem a bit down after we defeated that Dalek. For a while, at least. And when you kidnapped me and the boys—”

“Accidentally teleported onto that ship, thank you.”

“—and gave us the message to give to her, she looked so relieved that it was from you. Like, proper relieved.” Yaz smiled fondly at the memory of the Doctor’s face, the smile quirking up her lips, the happy sparkle in her eyes. “Maybe she thought you were dead. If Torchwood was gone.”

“Don’t.” He screwed up his face in an expression of unmistakable pain. “Please don’t.”

“Alright.” Yaz knew a still-healing wound when she saw one. And she reckoned Jack’s was still very much like the one on the Doctor’s stomach. “Let’s get this oxygen into her lungs.”

With the mask on, the Doctor looked—if possible—even smaller and more fragile than ever before. The greatest woman to have ever lived throughout space and time, who knocked the breath out of Yaz with every awe-inspiring thing she did, with all the stars lighting up her soul… and here she was, after thirty years in the cruellest prison in the universe, unconscious and hooked up to oxygen. Yaz delicately traced a scar on the Doctor’s cheek, stopping just short of the mask, gritting her teeth to quench the urge to cry.

The Doctor wailed in her sleep. She tugged her hand out of Yaz’s, fingers fumbling around the mask in a weak attempt to remove it.

“Doctor,” Yaz said, gently pulling the Doctor’s hand away and squeezing it. The Doctor yanked it away again, this time letting it drop onto the covers, fingers curling into a fist. “Doctor, you’ve got to keep that mask on. You can’t breathe by yourself right now, and your lungs need a little support. We can’t risk you getting worse, that’s the last thing we want to happen, so you’ve got to keep the oxygen mask on, alright? It keeps you safe. And… and neither of us want to los—”

“Yaz,” Jack said. “Don’t say that. That’ll just freak her out.”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell people what to do, Jack, considering you’re the reason she’s in this state at all.”

“Oh,” Jack scoffed, rising to his feet, “ _ I’m  _ the reason?”   


“You gave her the aspirin,” Yaz muttered.

“ _ You  _ didn’t tell me she had the allergy.”

“I thought you knew!” Yaz exclaimed loudly, and the Doctor hunched her knees up beneath the covers. She squeezed her eyes shut so they crinkled around the edges, heavy lines etching her forehead, distorting the scar. Jack sank back down into his chair, clearly biting back a sharp response.

“You know much more about the Doctor than I do,” Yaz admitted, more quietly. 

“Do I?”

“She doesn’t talk easily.” Yaz paused, frowning. “Or at all. Ever, come to think of it. We knew literally nothing about her till… well, the Master, but we’re not talking about him right now... and even then, we had to extract the information out of her. And after that, she was so unpredictable.” Yaz’s shoulders slumped, and she glanced away from the Doctor. “Her mood, I mean. Graham said one minute she was all smiles and sunshine, the next minute her mind was somewhere else. And he was right. We never truly found out why.”

“Strange. She was usually pretty open with me in her big ears regeneration. Didn’t have much time to talk with the pinstripe regeneration, we were off saving the world both times, but he struck me as the sort of guy who would be open to talking about his past as well. Why d’ya think she changed?”

“Regeneration?” Yaz guessed wearily. “I don’t know, Jack, maybe it’s just a regeneration thing. Different body, different personality, different habits, different quirks. Ultimately, the same Doctor, but—don’t look like that,” she pleaded, when Jack threw an uncertain glance at the Doctor. “She  _ is  _ the Doctor, Jack. She just needs help.”

“I bloody well hope she’s still the Doctor we know if she survives,” he muttered.

_ If she survives.  _ If  _ she survives _ .

“She will survive,” Yaz corrected. “She’s a fighter, Jack. She can fight her way through this. With our help, she can get through this.”

“She’d given up hope in prison. All the fight had left her. I could tell.” Jack buried his face in his hands, letting out a heavy sigh. “The look of defeat, Yaz? It’s one of the most painful things to see. Especially on the face of your oldest friend. I don’t know if you’ve seen it yet, and you will. And believe me, it stabs you right in the heart.”

Without another word, he exited the room, coat draped over his shoulder. The fridge door opened and closed with a quiet  _ thud _ , and not long after came the distant sound of a liquid being poured into a glass (most likely alcohol of some sorts, she suspected). 

Yaz absent-mindedly adjusted the Doctor’s covers, tenderly pushing a strand of hair out of the sleeping alien’s face. That’s when she realised the Doctor’s face was damp. Damp with… with  _ tears _ . And her fingers were sketching out a pattern on the duvet. Eight vertical lines, then two diagonal slashes across them. The pattern (the tallies?) repeated for a minute or two, shifting here and there, before her hand finally went limp and she took in a great, shuddering breath, tears still leaking out of her eyes.

Yaz studied the Doctor’s face for a moment. Now she’d noticed, she could see the salty tears leaving tracks across her skin, down towards the pillow, clinging to her eyelashes and making them shine. The Doctor was  _ crying _ . Yaz didn’t know about the look of defeat, but the fact that the Doctor was crying punched a hole in her heart. Even when she’d been about to ‘sacrifice’ herself on Gallifrey, she hadn’t cried. She simply turned her back and walked away, death particule clutched in hand. Coat billowing out behind her. Face impassive. Chin up. 

Ten months had passed

And now the Doctor was back. The strongest person Yaz knew. And she was  _ crying _ .

***

_ She wasn’t alone. She didn’t like that feeling at all. Someone was with her, touching her face, touching her hair, but she couldn’t find the urge to tell them to go away. _

_ Because— _

_ —because it felt nice, she realised, the person touching her wasn’t being harsh, or rough, or hard… they were nice, they were ever so nice, and she thought she knew who it was. Yet their feather touch, their feather fingers, they weren’t enough to draw her away from the pain, the darkness, the cold, cold ocean swishing around inside her, threatening to drown her entirely. The ocean hurt, it stung and it bit and it choked, and it felt like poison. _

_ Poison? _

_ Poison. _

_ Horrible poison, deadly poison, and she was fighting it, she was trying her very best to fight it, but the poison— _

_ Aspirin? _

_ She remembered screaming, shouting— _

_ —someone yelling about aspirin— _

_ —cold, burning cold, breaking through her skin. _

_ Apologies, a thousand apologies— _

_ —in the voice that always apologised, and never stopped. _

_ There was a heartbeat. She sensed it, heard it, beating double time ever so close to her. And then there were her own hearts, beating one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, faster and faster, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, onetwothreefour-onetwothreefour— _

_ Doctor? Doctor, it’s me, Yaz. _

_ Can you hear me? Oh my God. _

_ It’s going to be OK. Take some nice, deep— _

_ Breaths. Breathing. Breathing oxygen, but it was… different oxygen. Too pure. Too cold. Too… too clean. Not like the cell. It… soothed her. Like she did. Like the person sitting next to her, she soothed her, and the oxygen did too, it gave her a space to breathe whilst the ocean mocked her, laughed at her, tried to deprive her of the air. It was pressing something to her face as well, something she’d attempted to take off, but hands had stopped her and she’d pulled away. _

_ Why wasn’t the poison hurting? Or maybe it was hurting, and she was too numb to feel it. Or maybe the pain was so great, her body was protecting her from it by dragging her into the ocean. Dragging her away from the stars. She wanted the stars. A hundred thousand different stars that she could float around forever, stars that would light her way. Stars that she could walk amongst, telling them tales— _

_ She used to tell stories, all the time. _

_ Recalling past adventures to her friends. _

_ She’d left them in the ruins of her home to sacrifice herself. _

_ And then she hadn’t sacrificed herself. _

_ Like the coward she was. _

_ And now they thought she was dead. She was dead to them. _

_ Her friends were all gone. _

_ No they weren’t. They were still alive. _

_ One of them was, at least— _

_ —she thought she was. She was here, by her side. _

_ She could tell her a story. That would be nice. _

_ If only her voice would work. _

_ If only she could remember the stories she told. _

_ Her head hurt so badly. _

_ The last time she’d told herself a story, it had been back in the cell. The cell? Why was she thinking about the cell? Was she in the cell now? It certainly felt like that, she could see the tallies, yes, there they were, surrounding her, surrounding her like the stars used to do. Tallies in the ocean? Ocean in a cell? Poison in an ocean, ocean in a cell, tallies in the ocean… it made sense. Did it make sense? _

_ When did anything make sense? _

_ The heartbeat outside of her own double beats was slowing down, and there were the feathers again, smoothing hair out of her way, avoiding the parts where her face prickled and burned. She could reach out and brush the mind with hers, try to communicate through there. They deserved a story— _

_ —and a gold star— _

_ —five points! _

_ Or was I doing stars? _

_ Stars that were out of reach? No chance. _

_ Maybe she should tell herself a story. Then she could project it into their mind. _

_ If they wanted to hear it. _

_ But then again, nobody had wanted to hear her voice for years. Nobody had wanted to hear her stories, nobody had wanted to receive the comfort she’d offered for so long, until it grew too unbearable. The love she was offering and not receiving in return. Abundant, boundless, limitless love that she tried so hard to sustain inside her. Then she tried to give herself the love she needed, when she’d accepted the fact that nobody wanted her, nobody was coming for her, nobody wanted to hear her voice anymore. _

_ Too late. She’d lost herself to the rocky walls and the tallies, the tallies, and the mocking night and the biting cold and the scrambled memories in her head that tortured her dreams. _

_ And then there had been fire and light and screaming—her screaming?—and someone picking her up and holding her close and she’d fought, she’d fought and fought and fought, because their emotions and memories had spilled into hers before she could stop them. And there had been love, and it had confused her, because who could ever love her? Who would waste their time trying to love her, not when she was— _

_ She was— _

_ One last thing, something you should know— _

_ —in the seconds, before you die— _

_ —everything you think you know is a lie. _

_ She didn’t know who she was. Names, identities, species, planets… they meant nothing to her now. Not when her entire childhood was a lie. Not when she’d lost so many lives because someone wanted to build what turned out to be the most powerful race in the universe out of her own DNA. She couldn’t remember love, she couldn’t remember the happier times, but she remembered this and she  _ burned _. _

_ Burned like the ruins of her home. Burned like the person that held her close and carried her away from her cell, because they burned with their own scars and their own torture. They made time twist and warp around them, they were fixed and solid and unmovable, they were—they were  _ wrong _ , and once upon a time, she was sure they’d disgusted her. _

_ They were the same person that hurt her. That poisoned her. She couldn’t trust them. Even though they’d broken her free, they hadn’t broken her free.  _

_ Why don’t I tell you a story, Doctor? _

_ I don’t think Jack’s coming back for a while. _

_ He needs a break. _

_ Do you want me to tell you a story? _

_ Yes. Yes! _

_ This person understood her, this person who was endlessly kind to her and comforted her and promised never to leave her. They—they had a name, they definitely had a name, but it was lost in the ocean. She took a deep breath and dived, pushed herself beneath the lapping waves, searched for it amongst the trailing threads of memories that tangled around her limbs and her body and her neck.  _

_ Doctor? _

_ Doctor, breathe. You can breathe. _

_ It’s OK. I’m here. Look, here’s my hand. _

_ You can sniff it again, if you want. _

_ You can taste it. Prove it’s me. _

_ Breathe, Doctor.  _

_ Maybe you just need rest. _

_ No. She didn’t want to rest. She wanted someone to talk to her, wanted someone to love her again, give her the love she’d offered, the love she lost. If only she could place a name to a voice, then a voice to a face, then a face to memories, so many memories, memories that proved that there was hope still out there, that she could still be loved— _

_ —she knew them. She knew them. _

_ She  _ had  _ to know them. _

_ They… they meant a lot to her. _

_ Oh, she was so tired. _

_ And she hurt so much. It wasn’t pain, but it was cold. Snow, ice, frost, sweeping her hearts, sneaking into them, then joyriding out on her blood to torment the rest of her body. Which was strange, because outside, she was warm. Too warm. Why was she warm? Why was she warm, and cold, and still and—why was she shaking?  _

_ A hand. A hand slipping into hers. A thumb rubbing her skin. _

_ She sniffed. They smelt right. They smelt of freshly-washed clothes, and the traces of perfume, and of comfort.  _

_ Tell me a story, she begged. Please, tell me a story. I want to know you’re here. I want to know I’m loved. I want to know this isn’t the cell, that I’m safe, that you’re not going to hurt me, that you promise I’ll be OK. _

_ She’d dived too deep into the ocean. She’d fallen too far. She couldn’t see the stars, no matter how hard she tried. _

_ Somewhere, out there, her eyes were closed, her hand was being held, there was someone by her side. _

_ But in here—in her mind—in her head—in her cell—she was trapped. _

_ And she couldn’t break out. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for the delay in the update, I know it's been over two weeks since the last update. I lost the flow for this for a while, had a bit of a fic burnout, and it took forever to get it started up again.
> 
> Thank you so much for waiting for this, and (hopefully) not giving up on it! Please do feel free to leave a comment telling me your faults, it would be like giving Thirteen a huge pile of custard creams and a cup of tea--and God knows she needs it right now!


	6. Mistakes

It felt like someone had stuffed Jack’s head with cotton wool.

Cold rays of winter sunlight settled across the living room; they blinded him, despite the weakness, and he was struggling to find the strength (and the will) to keep standing as he stumbled from the kitchen after having a very much needed glass of water. In the corner of his peripheral vision, he caught sight of an empty bottle abandoned on the coffee table, ring-shaped stains littering the once-polished surface.

Jack glanced down at his rumpled clothes, ran a hand through his unintentionally messed up hair. A sickening sense of dread rose inside him. Last night… last night was a blur in his head, a blur of images and sounds that didn’t work together, didn’t make sense. Distantly, he recalled the cold feeling of a glass in his hand, the burning taste of liquor as it sloshed down his throat. And all over his clothes in some cases, it seemed, as he took in the dark patches on his shirt. 

He ran a tongue over his dry lips now. Yep, definitely liquor. Hard, undiluted liquor, the acrid aftertaste clinging to his mouth. 

How many glasses—?

An ache pounded at the back of his head, in the depths of the cotton wool that clogged up his mind. There was a tender spot on his forehead too; he touched it gingerly, wincing as his fingers brushed the definite outline of a bruise. Had he fallen over? Collapsed? Both?

A drunken haze. He’d gotten drunk, when the Doctor was on oxygen in the bedroom. Fighting an allergic reaction that was entirely his fault. If he hadn’t been so desperate to be the hero, to know everything, to be the one to save the Doctor… he might’ve actually slowed down, talked to Yaz first, discovered the aspirin allergy before he’d used the cream on the wound.

“Shit,” he muttered, bracing his hands against the wall, head bowed. “Shit. This is bad. This is really, really—”

“Morning,” a curt voice said.

Yaz leant against the wall by the door to the bedroom, arms folded, eyebrows arched prominently. She didn’t hide the up-and-down glance she gave him, eyes sweeping over the creases, the stains, the bruise which he hadn’t had a chance to look at. Her lips tightened.

“Yaz,” Jack said hoarsely. “What did I—did I do anything last night? Anything bad?”

“You could say that.”

“ _ Shit _ .”

“It’s no good swearing, Jack,” Yaz said tightly, picking up the bottle and glass from the coffee table and grimacing at the sight of them. “Damage is done. You said what you said. Or rather, you yelled what you yelled. Loudly, may I add. I’m surprised the neighbours didn’t come knocking.”

“What did I yell?”

“I’ll leave you to work that out by yourself,” she called over her shoulder, heading into the kitchen. “But I’m going to say this—you owe the Doctor an apology. Big time. Not that she’s going to let you near her, of course,” she laughed humourlessly, and the sound grated on Jack’s ears. “I didn’t think things could get any worse between you and her, but clearly, I was very wrong, wasn’t I?”

“Yaz…”

“Go have a shower,” Yaz said coldly. “You stink like hell.”

“Yaz—”

“Shower. Now. Then we talk.”

“Who put you in charge?” he retorted, a burst of anger temporarily quenching the fear inside him.

“Considering you deemed yourself completely incapable of looking after the Doctor,” Yaz said, emerging from the kitchen, brandishing a Febreze, dark eyes boring furiously into his, “I don’t think you should be the one giving orders around here. I gave you a chance to redeem yourself after the aspirin incident, and twenty-four hours later, you screw up. Massively screw up. Now shower, for God’s sake, stop stinking out the apartment.”

As if to prove her point, she sprayed the Febreze in his direction, and stalked off towards the Doctor’s bedroom.

The harsh, artificial lights of the bathroom ground into his skull. He stripped, threw his clothes in a random direction, and stepped into the shower. His fingers shook as he twisted the temperature anticlockwise; a cold shower would wake him up, kick his synapses into action, and hopefully he’d start to remember. Still, it was a bit of a shock when icy droplets came gushing down from the showerhead and splattered all over him. 

“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” Yaz snapped from outside the door as he yelled out in shock. Her voice rang through the bathroom despite the noise of the shower. “I’ve left clothes outside the door. The old ones reek.”

“I gathered that, thanks!” he shouted back.

“And don’t make such a noise, you’ll wake the Doctor up, and she’s already had enough shit to deal with in one night.”

It was the first time he’d heard Yaz swear. In all honesty, he hadn’t perceived her to be the swearing sort of type, and the same dread swelled inside him at what exactly had happened last night. The more he thought about it, the more difficult it was to salvage the broken memories. Like a black hole had opened up and sucked everything away. 

Jack closed his eyes, letting the water stream down his face. God, he was so tired. He’d have to sleep off the hangover, he reckoned—it wasn’t like Yaz was going to let him help out with the Doctor in any way now. He’d rather be useless than mess up again. 

That’s all he felt.  _ Uselessness _ . Uselessness, emptiness, weariness, loneliness… and he had nobody to talk to. Nobody to reach out to. Nobody to hold him and tell him it was going to be OK. The one person he’d trust with everything was in no state whatsoever to talk to him. And she certainly wouldn’t want to hold him either. The last time they’d properly embraced felt so long ago, yet he could still remember the way they held each other, laughing and grinning, pulling each other close and just…  _ hugging _ . Two heartbeats beating twice as fast against his own, mere, single heartbeat. A chin hooked on his shoulder, the faint smell of hairspray (he  _ knew  _ that regeneration used hairspray) wafting around them.

This regeneration of hers was small. She’d fit nicely in his arms, he imagined. He could hold her close, she could hold him close… they could hold each other, and height wouldn’t matter, because he would know everything would be OK. Heck, he could bury his face in her hair and she’d smell perfect, she’d have that reassuring scent around her that never changed, no matter what regeneration, and he could hug her and hold her and—

Jack shook the thoughts out of his head. Scrubbing himself over with a faintly scented shower gel, he let the water wash away the remaining soapy suds, and then switched off the shower. The quiet that followed made his ears ring. He listened for sounds of life from Yaz, or even the Doctor.

The silence that answered hit harder than it should’ve done.

Once he was dried and dressed, he ventured out into the living room to be greeted by the incandescent gaze of Yaz, who had cleaned up the table and was now watching him with narrowed eyes. She jerked her chin towards a steaming coffee on a coaster. “Coffee. Have it. You need waking up.”

“No thanks,” he muttered. “Want to sleep this hangover off.”

“You deserve it,” she said spitefully.

“What did I  _ do  _ last night, Yaz?”

A pause.

“...you hurt her,” Yaz said quietly. Dangerously.

A beat. Two beats. Several beats that lasted far too long.

Then she was flying across the room towards him. In a split-second, her hand drew back, and it connected with Jack’s face in a hard  _ slap  _ that sent him stumbling backwards. 

Head reeling from the impact, he braced himself for another attack. Something was fluttering inside him. Giving him an odd sense of deja vu, though he had no clue where it was coming from. His fingers twitched with the ghost of a memory, of a fight of his own, of a slap of his own—or was it a punch? His knuckles ached, he realised, and with that realisation came a dawning sense of horror.

Cheek smarting painfully, he glared at Yaz. “What was  _ that  _ for?”

“For what you did last night!” she screamed. “For what you did to her last night! You  _ hurt  _ her, Jack, you—you—”

Her hand flew back again. This time, Jack was ready. He caught her wrist between his fingers and pushed it away—not roughly, but hard enough to make his point. “Don’t you dare raise your hand to me, Yasmin Khan.”

“I’ll do whatever the hell I want after last night,” she hissed. “I gave you one more chance, Jack Harkness, and you threw it away! Why did you get drunk? Why did you do that to her? She was terrified of you, Jack, that’s all, she was terrified of you! And quite frankly, I can see why!”

Jack took a deep breath. “When you say I hurt her—”

“Get out.”

“What?”

“I said, get out.” She pointed at the door. “Get your coat and get out.”

“You can’t kick me out of my own apartment!”

“I’m not,” she said fiercely. “I’m telling you to get out, have a nice, long walk, and see if you can remember what you did last night. I’m not letting you anywhere near her from now on, do you understand? Don’t touch her. Don’t talk to her. Don’t do anything. Just get out and don’t come back until you remember what you did. And then we talk. Understood?”

“Yaz—”

“No,” she said, spinning on her heel and striding towards the bedroom. “Don’t talk to me. Get out.”

Jack bit back a poisonous retort—although it wasn’t like he could make things worse. They were already as bad as they could possibly be. Snatching his coat from where it had been abandoned on the sofa, he tugged the front door open, swept out, and kicked it shut behind him with a deafening  _ slam _ . A high-pitched wail came faintly from inside, but he found for once, he didn't care. Shrugging on his coat, Jack took the stairs two at a time, skidding on his heel at every turn, until the main door was closing behind him and he was striding out into the open.

***

He walked for hours.

He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know  _ why  _ he was going where he was going. Cardiff was well and truly alive. With a pang, Jack remembered it was, in fact, only three days until Christmas, and this notion only soured his mood more. Hands shoved in his pockets, he blocked out the bustling streets and focused instead on the bitter cold, the marbled grey of the sky, the darkening snow clouds on the horizon.

Somehow, he ended up in a small, secluded park not far from the Roald Dahl Plass; he’d avoided the gleaming water tower and the ruins beneath it like the plague. Here in the park, however, he sat amongst the trees and stared at the pond in the centre rippling and bubbling as ducks glided across, quacking and shaking droplets from their wings. Half of the water was frozen over. A singular duck was slipping on the ice, desperately trying to stay upright, yet ended up skidding straight into the water with its legs splayed, looking rather bemused as to why its home was suddenly not the way it remembered.

Once upon a time, Jack would’ve chuckled at the duck and moved on. Now, he simply watched it join its friends and swim off to the other side, where a bunch of reeds concealed what he presumed to be a well-hidden duck nest.

Could he remember anything about last night? No.

Did he care? Yes. Yes, he cared. His stupid brain, on the other hand, refused to kick into action.

_ You hurt her. She was terrified of you, that’s all, she was terrified of you! And quite frankly, I can see why. _

A memory surfaced from the haze like a lighthouse ray through the fog. 

It was brief, and he couldn’t place the exact point of time where it had happened, but it was sharp and it was clear and it… and it  _ hurt _ . 

A blur of scars and blonde hair and oversized clothes rushing towards him. Him yelling—yelling  _ something  _ at her, something that clearly upset her, forgotten words that made his gut twist in alarm. Fists pummelling his chest, backing him up against the wall. And in that drunken haze, in the muddle of liquor and anger and shock—he’d fought back. Gripped her by the shoulders, shoved her away from him, and he should’ve stopped, he should’ve left it there, but—

Jack was shivering. Shaking. Disgusted at himself, recoiling at the memory as it trailed off into nothingness, giving him a very obvious clue as to what happened next. He glanced down at his hands, clasped together in his lap, searching for any signs of blood that wasn’t his own. Any signs that he hurt her far more than he intended to. Than he intended to? He didn’t want to hurt her at all, yet right now, he seemed incapable of doing anything else.

No blood. This gave him the tiniest slice of relief. But then he remembered showering, and groaned again. The water would’ve washed away any traces.

Had he bruised her? Grazed her? Drawn blood? Oh God—had he broken one of her bones?

She’d fought him. And he’d fought back. Despite how weak she was, he’d fought back.

And from what he gathered—from Yaz’s quelling anger, to that single recollection—he’d won.

The thought sickened him.

***

_ Hey. Hey, Doctor, it’s OK. It’s me, Yaz. _

_ Jack’s gone. He’s not coming back for a while. _

_ I don’t think it’s safe for you here anymore. _

_ I don’t want you to get hurt again. _

_ Oh, Doctor, please don’t cry. You’ll be safe with me. _

_ I promise.  _

_ We’re going to get out of here so you’ll be safe. _

_ It’ll be a long car journey but I’ll make sure you’re cosy. _

_ And that you have the oxygen. And that you’re safe. _

_ We’ll get out of here, I promise. _

_ I’ll look after you. _

***

Yaz didn’t like to call this  _ being on the run _ , but it definitely felt like an escape.

She applied a little more pressure to the accelerator, knuckles white as she gripped the wheel, eyes flicking constantly to the rear view mirror to check on the sleeping Doctor in the back. This wasn’t the safest thing, she admitted, but she’d made sure the Doctor was as comfortable in the back as possible, draping her form in the cosy purple duvet, propping her up with pillows, frequently pulling over into a layby so she could check the oxygen mask was still secure. Getting the Doctor out of the apartment had been a tricky operation; thankfully, her car wasn’t parked far away from the block, and by some miracle Yaz had run into no one as she’d carried the Doctor down the stairwells and slipped out of the front door.

It worried her, however, that the Doctor hadn’t protested. She didn’t make a sound as Yaz had tentatively scooped her up, and she hadn’t tried to push Yaz away or wriggle out of her grasp. Not once. Her condition hadn’t deteriorated, from what Yaz could tell from the physical symptoms, but she was still eerily pale and her wound wasn’t any better.

_ But then again _ , Yaz reminded herself firmly,  _ it isn’t any worse, is it? And her breathing’s calmed down. _

Which surprised her, considering what had happened last night. That burst of energy, undoubtedly fuelled by anger and fear and the need to defend herself… it came out of the blue. Yaz had wondered whether Jack shouting at the Doctor would trigger something, and she’d been all prepared for the Doctor to start screaming back, but physically attacking Jack? And Jack fighting back? The Time Lord and the Torchwood agent, both battling it out on each other, releasing pent up anger in the form of punching and kicking and high-pitched screeching in a foreign language on the Doctor’s part, a foreign language that unnerved Yaz greatly, because it sounded so…  _ ethereal _ . Magical. Out of this universe. 

Like starlight, and thunderstorms, and glaciers, and sunsets, and—

Whatever it was, it caught Yaz off guard. Long enough for Jack to shove the Doctor off him, long enough for her to retaliate by throwing herself at him, long enough for him to—

A fresh scattering of bruises now adorned the Doctor's back from where she’d fallen against the wardrobe. Yaz feared she’d sprained her wrist from where she’d tried to push Jack off her. But the Doctor had been (and still was) horribly weakened, flailing and kicking and sobbing, sweat shining on her face as the energy dissolved and she struggled to fight back, her efforts becoming feebler and feebler until Yaz was finally able to separate the pair of them and kick Jack out of the bedroom so she could tend to any potential injuries the Doctor had gained.

She looked over her shoulder at the Doctor now, wincing in sympathy at her now-bandaged wrist. Red hot anger bubbled inside her. She thought she could trust Jack, she thought he would be able to cope under the stress of looking after his friend, but clearly he couldn’t be held responsible anymore. Yaz was taking matters into her own hands. She’d do anything to ensure the Doctor’s safety. She couldn’t lose the Doctor now. Not after those awful, awful ten months.

Yaz fumbled in her door pocket for the collection of two or three CDs she kept there, smiling to herself as she found the Coldplay mix. She had been the one to introduce the Doctor to Coldplay, and after the Time Lord had fallen head-over-heels for the band and listened to every single one of their songs (twice), they’d spent a few hours choosing their top songs and compiling them into a collection on a CD, huddled together in the TARDIS console room, the Doctor humming her utmost favourites under her breath. 

And every time they’d been in Yaz’s car, they’d blasted out those songs, singing at the top of their lungs, arms flung out the window and letting the wind twine through their hair and the universe rush by in a whirl.

Yaz slotted the CD into the player. She didn’t turn the volume up to max—the last thing she wanted to do was to upset the Doctor, who hated noise with a passion now—but she adjusted it so it was a quiet thrum in the background, loud enough for the Doctor to hopefully sense, soft enough to soothe her. 

Yaz’s eyes flicked to the rear view mirror once more. The Doctor didn’t show any signs of recognition. 

Scarlet streaks were beginning to smudge through the greying sky, and against them, the snow clouds looked even more threatening. Trying to ignore the disappointment and fear fermenting in her stomach, Yaz returned her attention to the road and drove on, whilst in the background, Coldplay sang about the stars.

***

Jack found the letter in the spot where the medical kit had once been in the kitchen, folded in half, tucked under the box of aspirin. With trembling hands, he tugged it out and unfolded it, eyes scanning the sentences, bile rising in his mouth. He swallowed it down and reread it again. And again. The words wouldn’t sink in. His grip was slowly tightening around the paper; it crumpled in his hand and he hastily smoothed it out, blinking at the sentences for a good few minutes.

_ I  _ _ don’t trust you anymore _ , the letter stated. He winced.  _ The Doctor and I have got out of here. What you did was just plain wrong.  _

The letter fell from his grasp, drifting this way and that on its short descent to the floor. He was picking it up again in an instant, tearing it into halves, then quarters, then eights, and then tearing and tearing until shreds were scattered through the air like hated, unwanted confetti. Jack let out a noise like an injured animal—and drove his fist into the wall.

And once he started, he couldn’t stop. He pummelled the wall again and again, both fists hammering out a sickening rhythm until cracks were splintering across the plaster and blood was trickling down his knuckles and—

And he stopped, and he stared at the bloodied smears on the wall, and he concentrated on the dull ache now spreading through both his hands. 

It sounded cruel, but he wanted to hear the Doctor’s whimpers. The sound of her muffled crying into her pillow, just so he could go and ease her pain, comfort her, delete all the mistakes he’d made from time, all the horrors etched into the Doctor’s timeline, and rewrite so everything would be OK. So the Doctor would be OK. So she didn’t have to endure thirty years in the hellhole of a prison. So she didn’t have to feel so utterly helpless and alone.

So he didn’t have to feel so utterly helpless and alone.

So he could hold her close, in his arms, and tell her everything was going to be OK.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn't mean for things to get worse--  
> (I did)
> 
> :)


End file.
